


Beg, Steal, Borrow.

by Saphron_Girl



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fix-It, Graphic descriptions of sex crimes, Graphic descriptions of violence, Graphic descriptions of war, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphron_Girl/pseuds/Saphron_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate universe scenario where Freddy and Larry meet for the first time in 2003, approximately a decade after the events in <i>Reservoir Dogs</i>.  Even in fan fiction, these two men seem destined to find a tragic end.  I just wanted to give them a chance at happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg, Steal, Borrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Use [this photo](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_la058dvPaf1qe391xo1_1280.jpg) as a visual reference for their age/appearance.

He winced and took another gulp of his whiskey. The bar was noisy, patrons hollering at a playoff game being fed to every television in the place. Freddy rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes. The crowded room dissolved around him and he was back at the train tracks, just a few hours earlier. Crisp autumn air, his collar turned up. Still not quite used to the New York weather. The woman's face, obscured by matted strands of hair, her body tied and placed in such a way that it would be perfectly sectioned. It had been a while since he'd felt the urge to empty his stomach at the sight of a victim. This one had tested him. 

An arm bumped his and he nearly jumped out of his seat. Wide shoulders, rolled up sleeves. He caught the top of a tattoo in his peripheral vision. Blunt, strong fingers tapping a steady beat against the counter. Freddy stared down at his whiskey. It was becoming alarmingly scarce.

"Hey gorgeous, what's a guy gotta do to get the royal treatment 'round here?"

An inebriated weasel of a man called out and slithered up to the bar top, practically pouring himself onto the bartender. Freddy felt the stranger beside him straighten, kicked into high alert. He kept his eyes on the television, but it was obvious he wasn't watching the game. Freddy risked a quick glance over at the weasel. He kept squawking, bolder and more offensive with every word. The bartender stared at him coldly, like he was shit on her shoe. She kept silent.

"You listening to me, honey? You been slow with those drinks all night. I think you owe me something."

"I don't owe you nothing but a kick to your tiny pecker. You go and sit back down before things get rough for you."

Her voice was level, hard as rock. Freddy was impressed.

"You fucking bitch!" the weasel yelled, lunging across the counter. Freddy jumped up like a bolt, but the man beside him got there first. In one quick, clean movement, he had the prick bent over the countertop, arm wrenched tight behind his back. He bent down and spoke into his ear, timbre low and dangerous.

"I'm giving you five seconds to get the fuck out of here before I break every bone in your arm."

"Okay, okay!"

The entire room was silent. Freddy's heart richoteted against his rib cage, body spring-loaded with adrenaline. The weasel shook himself off, shot the bartender a one last spiteful glare and stumbled out the front door. A player hit a double and the bar erupted in cheers, the dramatic interlude quickly forgotten.

"You're lucky you're a regular, Larry, or I woulda kicked you out too," the bartender laughed. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm already regretting it. That asshole got to drink for free."

Freddy allowed himself to really look at the guy for the first time since he'd sat next to him. He was older, maybe late fifties, early sixties. Worn, but still regal looking. Salt and pepper hair. Mirthful eyes, a playful twist to his mouth. Freddy spoke before he could stop himself.

"I'm sure that guy could have taken you. He was just having an off day."

A dark, cold stare sized him up. Freddy slouched against the bar, expression open and mischievous. The man immediately relaxed, laughing. A pat on his back, quick and warm. Freddy tried not to lean into it.

"He was a loudmouth little jackoff. I don't know how women put up with shit like that."

"They get used to it," Freddy shrugged, smile fading.

"That's fucking depressing."

"It's also the truth."

Freddy tried not to think of the countless women he'd seen bullied, forced, and brutalized. Two tumblers of whiskey were plunked down infront of them. The bartender smiled warmly. She'd heard their conversation.

"On the house. For the only two gentlemen in the entire establishment."

"You're a good gal, Gina."

"Don't push me, Larry," she wagged her finger at him and sauntered away.

Freddy wasted no time, extending a hand, strong and confident.

"Name's Freddy."

"I think you got my name already, kid," Larry's grip was warm and firm, his grin easy, bracketed by an unbelievable set of dimples. _Fuck_. 

"Hi Larry," Freddy drawled and took a slow sip of his whiskey.

**********

He shivered, pulling his keys out of the lock and pocketing them as he shuffled into his apartment. Freddy was slightly buzzed, stomach still doing handstands, face twisted in a goofy grin. They'd talked for hours, about music and movies and cars and other stupid shit he couldn't even remember. He'd deliberately avoided mentioning that he was a cop; it always got him unpredictable reactions. People knew it was low paying, high stress, and came with a shit-ton of baggage. That news could be eased into. Maybe he'd mention it on Friday. He flushed. He had an actual fucking date on Friday, at a sit-down restaurant and everything.

They'd been standing outside, coats wrapped tight around them, Freddy taking a deep drag on his smoke while Larry rubbed his hands together like kindling. The offer had come out rushed and uncertain and Freddy had asked him to repeat it, just to be sure he'd heard right. When Larry stammered, red-faced, Freddy had placed a reassuring hand on his forearm and accepted. The smile he'd received in return had been blinding.

Freddy walked to his bedroom, stripping as he went. He collapsed into his bed, the culmination of the day's events finally leveling him. His dreams were of smiling, brown eyes creased with laughter, the touch of warm, broad hands, and train tracks that seemed to stretch into infinity.

**********

Work dragged. The case was pretty cut and dry, just a matter of clocking coagulation rates, back-tracking, and the process of elimination. He silently berated himself for wanting more of a puzzle, and less of a pissing contest with the DA. Deep down, Freddy knew his job was primarily about politics and good timing rather than logic and reason, but he hated being reminded of it.

Friday evening snuck up on him. He hardly had time to get home and change, spending ten agonizing minutes in front of his bathroom mirror before finally settling on a long-sleeved dress polo and a pair of jeans. One last glance at his reflection revealed five o'clock shadow he probably should have shaved, and fatigue around his eyes. It was too late to do anything about it. He sighed and pulled on his leather jacket, instantly reassured by its familiarity.

**********

Freddy knew the area. He walked briskly against the autumn wind, hands shoved into his pockets. The restaurant's sign illuminated the familiar lines of Larry's body as he leaned against the wall. He was looking down, his shoulders slightly hunched as he worked to ignite his zippo. Freddy approached him, tamping down a smile.

"Can I have a light, mister?"

He kept his voice low but playful. Larry almost dropped the lighter in surprise, but recovered with quick reflexes. 

"You sure? I guarantee it's warmer inside," Larry teased, "and the food ain't bad, either."

He leaned over and opened the door. Freddy nodded in thanks and stepped across the threshold, distracted by the ghosting of fingertips against his lower back. 

It was modestly decorated, clean, and about half-full. They were seated at a table in a corner. The first few minutes passed in an awkward silence, both men staring pointedly at their menu. Freddy shifted in his seat, inwardly debating whether or not he should remove his coat. He was thankful when the waitress interrupted his inane musings. He ordered a beer. Larry did the same. 

"Sorry kid, it's been a while since I did this kind of thing."

Freddy immediately relaxed, smiling gently.

"Yeah, me too. And please don't call me 'kid'. We've both got grey hair, for Christ's sake," he laughed.

"Come on, how old are ya? Thirty six? Thirty seven? You're a kid."

"Just hit my fourth decade."

Larry looked genuinely surprised. The waitress brought them their beer and they quickly ordered their meals, eager to get back to the conversation.

"Tell me anything about yourself other than how old you are," Freddy challenged impishly, looking up through his lashes. Larry swallowed, rubbed a hand against his chin, and spoke hesitantly.

"Not much to tell. Enlisted when I was in my twenties, sent over to Da Nang for Operation Rolling Thunder in '65. They kept me there as long as they could. Every day I was sure I was gonna die, but for some fucking reason I didn't. When I came back, everything was different. The world was different, and I was out of place in it."

Larry sighed, tracing the lip of his bottle with a blunt fingertip.

"I got a few odd jobs. Did what I could to make ends meet. Fell in love, got my heart broken. Moved around. Now I'm here, fixing cars. Like I said, not much to tell."

Freddy felt something inside him crack open.

"The night we met, I was drinking because I'd spent the afternoon looking at a young woman's decapitated head," Freddy spoke quietly, not daring to make eye contact, "I've seen dozens like her. The women and children are the worst. With men it's usually not as fetishized. Me and my partner thought it might be a serial job, 'cause of the way it looked. Turned out it was a jealous ex."

When Freddy looked up, Larry was staring at him like he'd just been cleaved through the chest. 

"You're a cop?" he choked out, voice strangled.

"Homicide detective. There's a high demand here, you know."

His attempt at levity fell flat. Larry leaned forward against the table, his face ashen. Something triggered Freddy's instincts and he moved back, spine straightening.

"Listen, is this gonna be some kind of problem? I was trying to tell you that I get it. I know I probably haven't seen anything like what you saw over there..."

Larry's eyes seemed black, sharp as blades. He brought one hand up onto the table, steadying himself.

"What is the worst thing you ever saw, kid?"

The waitress was infuriatingly absent. Freddy took a deep pull of his beer, not daring to look away.

"When I was in sex crimes, before they shipped me out here," Freddy wiped a palm over his face, trying to calm the tremor, "we found a dungeon. There were kids there. They'd been bought on the black market, as slaves. I can't even describe what had been done to them."

Both men sat in a tense, oppressive silence. Their drinks remained untouched. Cheerfully oblivious, the waitress finally returned to their table, depositing their meals. Freddy stared at his plate blankly, wondering how the hell he was going to be able to eat any of it.

"Damn it," Larry breathed, "I fucked everything up, didn't I?"

Freddy didn't know how to answer the question honestly, so he didn't even try. Instead, he cut hesitantly into a piece of lamb kebab and brought it to his mouth.

"This is good. I haven't had authentic Greek in a while."

"Yeah, it's family owned. Good people."

The tension drained out of Larry's body. He followed Freddy's lead, and they ate quietly for a few minutes, both men still slightly guarded. 

"What other divisions have you worked?" Larry asked casually between bites.

"Sex crimes really fucked me up. So they moved me to narcotics. I thought I'd be able to handle that until I saw what they did to the kids they had working as mules. Organized crime is one thing, but the cartels are fucking animals. Torture. Execution. I held out as long as I could, but they eventually moved me out here to work homicide. I still see messed up shit, but most of it is pretty cut and dry. Gang warfare. Vehicular homicide. Domestic violence turned deadly."

"Why the fuck did you become a cop?" Larry asked, obviously baffled.

"A sense of obligation, I suppose. My old man was a cop. It's kind of the family business."

Larry laughed and held his bottle across the table for a toast.

"To family businesses."

The glass clinked and they drank in warm silence. Freddy risked a private smile and Larry returned it. It was going to be okay; they understood each other.

**********

"You want that light now?"

Freddy nodded, tapping a cigarette from its box and bringing it to his lips. He watched Larry's hands as he struck the flint wheel. It ignited and Freddy took a deep breath, drawing the smoke into his lungs. He sighed in contentment.

It was cold outside, and their cigarettes wouldn't last forever. Freddy knew there were only two ways the night could end. Either alone in his bed, or not. The prospect of sex excited and terrified him at the same time. It had been a while since he'd slept with another man. And Larry was older. What if the chemistry wasn't there? What if was clumsy and awkward? Freddy shivered and tapped some ashes onto the pavement. On the other hand, it could be mind-blowing. He risked a glance over at his companion. The man was very deliberately not looking in his direction. _Fuck it_.

"Listen, I'm a good distance from here, so-"

"Yeah, I get it. You gotta call it a night."

Larry held out his hand companionably, face blank. Freddy stared at him, dumbfounded.

"No! Fuck no. That's not what I meant. I was trying to ask if you lived nearby."

Freddy immediately felt his face bloom with heat. There was no way his words could be misinterpreted. Larry stared, then collected himself quickly, clearing his throat. He hiked his hand over his shoulder.

"Just a few blocks away. Fifteen minute walk."

"Okay. Yeah," Freddy nodded, zipping up his jacket, "I've gotta leave early in the morning. That alright?"

Larry just nodded, a slightly dazed expression on his face. 

"Lead on, then."

Freddy fell into step beside him, their strides aligning. Nervous anticipation clenched at his stomach.

**********

The stairs were narrow. Freddy gripped the railing for dear life, trying desperately not think too hard about what would happen next. Larry lived in a little apartment above a deli. It was old, but had been recently renovated. The banister was stained oak, accented by matching wainscoting. Freddy wondered idly if Larry had offered to fix it up for the owners in exchange for a rental discount. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, crime-wise.

Larry unlocked the door and let him inside. It was just as pleasant as the hallway. Small and efficient, but obviously cared for. 

"You got a nice place," he offered.

Larry nodded in thanks, tossing his keys to the small table in his kitchenette and walked over to the fridge. Freddy wandered to the window and stared down at the nightlife below.

"I didn't know what you wanted."

Larry's voice was low in his ear. Freddy turned, breathing deeply, and took the proffered glass of cognac. He let it burn his throat on the way down, chasing stray drops with his tongue. He felt and heard Larry's sharp intake of breath, and his entire body tensed with both fear and desire. 

"Shhh," Larry murmured, reaching up to caress his face before bringing their mouths together. Freddy opened to him, vibrating like a plucked string.

Broad fingers stroked his back, guiding him towards the lone double bed. There was a shaky clink as the bottom of his glass hit the bedside table, followed by a whispered encouragement. He arched his neck, felt the sweat collecting there, then the wet press of a tongue swiping it away. His skin burned hot. He moaned loudly as a large hand palmed at his hard-on, trapped tight against the inner crease of his hip.

The buttons of his shirt snagged as Larry fought with them. Freddy twisted his body, giving easier access. His fly came down quick and easy. He rolled back onto the mattress, feeling the yank of fabric. Down and off. An old girlfriend had called him Goldilocks once, affectionately. "Not too big, not too small; just right. And such a pretty prick," she'd cooed. Larry seemed to agree, rumbling in appreciation, leaning forward, gripping him tight. 

"What do you want, baby?" 

He glanced down, licking his lips. Larry understood, and obliged him. Broad shoulders, sinewed arms. Skin lightly tanned, smooth and lightly dusted with hair, trailing down over the slight softness of his abdomen. A Chinese dragon wrapped over the top of his left pectoral muscle to match the tiger on his forearm. 

Freddy's lids felt heavy as he waited for Larry to remove his jeans. What he saw didn't disappoint; powerful thighs cradling short curls and one hell of a cock. He imagined it pressed against his own, the feel of its heat and thickness. 

"I wanna taste you..." 

Soft lips moved against his ear. Freddy shuddered, closing his eyes. He felt Larry shift lower, bed springs groaning. Two strong hands gripped his thighs and canted them upwards, splaying him open. 

His mind stuttered as he felt a slow, languid kiss around his hole. _Jesus fucking Christ_. He couldn't remember the last time someone had rimmed him. Larry's tongue pressed inside. The muscles in his thighs began to shake.

"Easy, darling," Larry stilled him, rubbing soft circles against his leg, "you taste so fucking good."

He gripped at a pillow. Saliva dripped obscenely down his thighs, smeared by Larry's jaw as it moved against him. A finger teased at him, pushing in. He felt perfect. Filthy. Another finger. He was panting, lids screwed tight. A pivot of the wrist; just the right angle. The room whited out around him.

"That's it, good boy."

"Please..."

Larry hummed, fucking him slowly with three fingers. Freddy pressed back, tilting his hips, mouth hanging open. Then a blur of movement; fingers pulled free, strong hands gripping his flanks and easing him onto his stomach. A fast yank upwards, the familiar noise of a wrapper being ripped open. One last press of fingers against his hole, testing him.

He groaned deeply as Larry pressed in, a fist balling into his undershirt, steadying him. His breath came hard and fast. One thrust. Two. He bucked against the thickness inside him, urging it deeper. _Right. There_. 

"Fucking Christ!"

"Jackpot," Larry breathed, rolling his pelvis just right, slamming in, pulling almost all the way out, then back. Relentless. A firm, warm weight blanketed Freddy's back as he turned his head. Their mouths collided, barely fitting together in the halting, rough thrusts of their fucking. 

He began to feel the orgasm coiling in his stomach. His body must have tensed, given some kind of clue, because Larry clutched at his cock, stroked once. 

"Come for me, baby."

His climax hit him so quickly it almost hurt, like having the air knocked out of his lungs. Larry pulled him back and held him against his chest, arm a tight line across the front of his shirt. He dimly felt the pulse of the cock buried inside him. His own spasms slowly subsided and he could breathe again.

His throat was raw. He must have yelled out. Larry soothed him quietly, kissing his temples, pushing back the damp weight of his hair. His head was pounding so hard he could hardly think. He somehow managed to throw his sticky undershirt next to his discarded jeans. Larry pulled himself up and walked to the bathroom, tied the condom and tossed it in the toilet. He had a great ass. Freddy pressed his giddy smile into the sheets, feeling ridiculous. The bed dipped as Larry returned.

"Lemme clean you up."

The washcloth was cold and rough. It left his skin slightly pink. Larry kissed him, then rested his head on his belly, quiet, trailing a finger around his navel. A minute later, he pulled himself up, drawing the blankets with him. They were cocooned together, warm and still slightly damp from lovemaking. Larry trailed soft kisses on the back of his neck, over his shoulder. Neither of them said another word.

**********

Freddy woke up a few hours later. He froze. It took a second for him to get his bearings, then his body relaxed. Larry mumbled against his shoulder. They were spooned tight, Larry's hand wrapped tenderly around his flaccid length. The curtains hung open, the city lights flooding in across the hardwood floor. He wanted to turn away from the window, but didn't. It was too easy to lean back against the solid warmth behind him. Larry nuzzled his ear, barely awake.

"Come 'ere, baby."

Larry turned onto his back and pulled Freddy over, settling him against his chest. Freddy listened to his heartbeat, steady as a metronome. Fingers lazily combed through his hair. It didn't take him long to fall back asleep.

**********

It was just before sunrise when Freddy woke up again. Larry's finger caressed his hole gently. He undulated against it.

"You're still fucked open from last night," Larry's voice was like gravel, "you wanna go again?"

"Fuck," Freddy moaned, feeling his cock twitch, "you bastard. I have to get up."

"How 'bout a shower?" 

"I don't have time to fuck, Larry!" he laughed, rolling on top of the other man. They kissed playfully.

"No funny business, I promise."

Freddy stared down at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I swear, I'll be good."

When Freddy scrambled to his desk almost forty minutes late, face spread in a stupid smile, his partner was polite enough not to mention it.

**********

Freddy was sore in the best way. Larry lay sprawled on his stomach, snoring softly beside him. Thanks to a miracle of timing, they'd had an entire day with no interruptions. No work. Just the two of them. After that first date, they'd fallen into a quick and easy intimacy. Larry's schedule was more accommodating, so they tried to see each other whenever Freddy wasn't working a shift. Sometimes they went out for food or a few drinks, but mostly they just split time between their apartments.

It was early afternoon and they'd already fucked three times since dawn; twice in bed, and once on the couch during a valiant attempt to watch _Gladiator_. Freddy's muscles groaned as he eased himself from the mattress, scratching lazily at his belly. He wandered into his bathroom, pissed long and slow, then splashed his face with water. He risked a quick glance at his reflection and barely recognized the younger man staring back. 

He crept back into his bedroom and wrapped himself against Larry's broad back. There was enough daylight escaping through his blinds for him to study the form of the man against him. He traced a lazy fingertip over his trapezius, memorizing the constellation of freckles there. He'd never had a chance to really look before. It had always made him too self-conscious. The skin felt so smooth; Freddy placed a gentle kiss against Larry's spine, spread a hand over his shoulder. He'd seen the tattoo there before, but not up close. An eagle crest, framed by the venerable words: SEMPER FIDELIS.

Larry hadn't really elaborated on his time in Vietnam outside of their first date, and Freddy would never push him. But he could guess. Freddy trailed his hand over the arm beneath him, appreciating the strong curve of his triceps and biceps, moving farther down. He loved Larry's hands. Loved their power and competency. They were the hands of a man who had labored in his life. Who had both fought and made love. He lifted the heavy palm, stroking gently across his knuckles. Then he froze, blinking. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Freddy spread the thick fingers and stared down at the familiar initials: ACAB. Four letters split between five digits, crude pointillism hidden in the webbing there. _All Coppers Are Bastards_.

It was a prison tattoo. His head felt disconnected from his body as he fell back against his side of the bed and stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling. Larry's sudden hostility at the restaurant now made sense. Freddy felt bile rising in his throat and he curled onto his side, away from the man sleeping next to him. There was no fucking logic in it. What had kept Larry from walking out on him that night, the second he found out he was a cop? Did he think Freddy would never notice the tattoo? Not know what the letters meant? He rubbed his hands over his face in anger. He almost began to laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation. What a pair they made.

Freddy forced himself to turn around. He calmly watched the rise and fall of Larry's back, considering his options. For a fraction of a second, we was tempted to run Larry's name. The guilt that followed was overwhelming. No. He had to trust Larry to tell him eventually. Inching closer, Freddy reached out a tentative hand. His arm curved around Larry just as easily as it had before.

**********

It should have been hard to maintain the illusion of his ignorance. A normal person would have given small tells, but Freddy was a natural. He was method. They'd called him Serpico, before it became apparent that he might be _too_ good. Larry didn't pick up on it. They carried on as they had before, simply enjoying their time together when they were lucky enough to get it.

By the tenth week, he started to mentally refer to Larry as his boyfriend, almost irritated that the word seemed neither appropriate nor adequate. In the private moments they shared in bed, he called Larry "sweetheart", completely defiant of his own distrust in sentimentality. Prompted by pure instinct, be began to open up more about the cases he was working, his frustration with procedure and politics. He wanted Larry to know the mundane reality of his job. A small part of him hoped that Larry would reciprocate. Instead, he was only met with a patient set of ears. Larry indulged his rants, but never said more than a few generic words of support. Outside of the deliberate concealment of his past, he was an ideal boyfriend. 

It wasn't just their sexual chemistry. Larry did little things so endearing that Freddy's throat would constrict with emotion. A tender kiss against his temple, a casual offer to come over and cook for him after a particularly horrific day, a surreptitious clasp of his hand under a table in public. Once, Larry took him to the garage he worked at and showed him the 1972 Pontiac Lemans coupe convertible he was rebuilding. His enthusiasm had been so boyish and infectious that Freddy had pulled him out back and kissed him breathless against the wall.

**********

In the seventeenth week, things changed. They'd just made love, hard and fast, Freddy's thighs burning as he fucked himself on Larry's cock. The two of them lay tangled together, sheets stinking of smoke, sex and sweat, still high from the intensity of their orgasms. Without thinking, Freddy mumbled, "I love you," and kissed into the crease of Larry's neck.

Larry froze beneath him, spine so stiff it could have snapped. Freddy's heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't retract the words: it would be worse than saying them. Instead, he just pretended it hadn't happened, gently rolling on to his side, giving Larry the space he obviously needed. 

He stared into the darkness, waiting silently for Larry to move. Either away from him, or towards him. Something. Ten minutes later he felt the mattress shift. When Larry finally put his arm around him, it seemed merely cursory.

**********

After that, Freddy's messages would sometimes go unanswered. Larry's boss started scheduling him for unreasonable shifts. When they did see each other, the conversation felt stilted and compulsory. Freddy wasn't an idiot; he could read between the lines. He felt like he was being propelled by a cruel inertia and was powerless to stop it. Soon they only saw each other for sex, always followed by a few quick kisses and an excuse for why Larry couldn't stay the night. Freddy numbed himself and calmly waited for the inevitable moment when Larry would break it off.

**********

He was at work when the call came. Turning away from his partner, he pushed his cellphone tight against his ear.

"I need to talk to you. Are you busy later tonight?"

Larry's voice sounded so calm. So precise. Freddy leaned against his car, staring down at the pavement. He had to swallow three times before he could answer.

"No, I'll be done around eight. Where do you want to go?"

"Why don't you come over to my place? It's been awhile."

So this was how he was going to play it. Anger shot through Freddy and he clenched his jaw. 

"Yeah. Funny that. Fine. See you at eight, then."

"See you."

He hung up and stared down at the phone, momentarily tempted to throw it into the oncoming traffic. 

"You okay, Newandyke?"

Freddy startled, glancing over at his partner. 

"Yeah. It's nothing. Let's go."

**********

He buzzed Larry's apartment, calming himself as he strode up the stairs. His fist clenched involuntarily as the door opened, but the look on Larry's face sobered him like a bucket of ice water.

"Oh sweetheart, what's wrong?" 

Larry's eyes widened at the candid term of endearment and his expression crumpled. Dried tear tracks stained his cheeks. Freddy pushed himself through the door and closed it behind him, enveloping Larry in his arms. The other man shuddered against him silently. Freddy just held tight, rubbing circles against his back, rocking him softly. When Larry finally pulled away his eyes were red and raw.

"Let's go sit down," Freddy soothed, leading him over to the bed. Larry sat two feet away from him and clasped his hand gently.

"What did I do to deserve you?" 

Larry's voice was rough, despondent. Freddy blinked in confusion. This wasn't how he was expecting the evening to unfold.

"Nothing. The world doesn't work that way," Freddy answered as honestly as he could, "There's no such fucking thing as karma, and I'm not a reward. I'm damaged goods, Larry. You know that."

Larry squeezed his hand tight, then brought it to his lips, kissing him gently. Freddy felt his chest tighten. It was like a farewell.

"When I came back from Vietnam, I was fucked up. I saw babies, maybe 5 or 6 years old, rented out and fucked by soldiers. I saw women and children bombed by napalm, running in terror as their flesh melted off in chunks. It was the same shit, over and over in my nightmares. I drank myself stupid. I thought of putting a bullet in my mouth so many times I lost count."

Freddy opened his lips to speak, but Larry halted him with an outstretched hand. 

"Wait, please let me finish. What pulled me out of it was a simple act of kindness. An old friend of my father's offered me a job. One time deal. High risk, big payout. He knew I was good with a weapon and could keep my cool. So I did it."

The puzzle pieces began to slip into place. Freddy stilled, but didn't say anything. He kept his expression open, non-judgmental. Larry breathed deeply and continued.

"I was good enough that he called me back to do more. Higher risk, bigger payout. We were so clean, the cops never even knew until after we were already gone. I never even fucking had to use my gun. It was almost too easy. That's when everything went to hell."

Larry paused and looked out the window. When he turned back his face was set with grim determination. 

"I did hard time. Fifteen of a twenty year sentence. I shot a woman; they called it a crime of passion," Larry's voice was almost reverent, "I didn't kill her husband. The cop. The other guys on the job found out he was undercover before I did. They took care of him. When they told me... I went fucking crazy. He betrayed me, so I took away what he'd loved the most. I had to tell you. When you said you loved me, I knew I had to. It was eating me alive."

The room was silent. Freddy's ears were ringing, like someone had shot a gun right next to his head. He carefully withdrew his hand and stood up from the bed.

"Baby, please", Larry begged, "say something."

"Don't call me that," Freddy whispered, voice sounding alien to his own ears.

His legs moved on their own accord. He was hardly aware as he crossed the room and descended the stairs. Suddenly, he was turning into the side alley to dry heave against the brick wall. 

In bed later that night, lying awake and tormented, he finally remembered the animalistic wail that had reverberated behind him down the hallway.

**********

The sun blazed overhead, blinding him. His shirt clung to his back. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, raising a hand to shield them. In the distance, he could see a small hacienda on a dirt road, wreathed by a bean field that rolled like waves with the wind. Wild horses grazed amidst the swaying stalks, their eyes unseeing. Opaque. A woman's scream cut through the silence, shrill and distraught. The horses scattered like birds, their mottled coats sprayed crimson. His feet sunk into the ground as he walked to the bean field; slowly, a funeral march. Like always, her crumpled body was nearly obscured, swaddled by vegetation. Her waxen skin was dappled like the horses', but with the sticky black of arterial blood. Freddy jolted awake, a gunshot screaming in his ears. It took him nearly an hour curled on his side to stop shaking.

**********

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

A few passersby stared, but Freddy ignored them. He ran both hands through his hair and paced the pavement infront of the courthouse, entire body taut with fatigue and rage. The box felt large in his hands as he clumsily reached for a cigarette. He barely got the lighter working; even the blessed first inhale wasn't enough to calm him. 

He heard his partner's tentative footsteps behind him. The kid was wise enough not to say a word. Freddy pressed a hand against the throbbing at his temple.

"I'm sorry, I was distracted. I fucked up," Freddy admitted. He felt utterly defeated.

"What the hell is going on with you?"

"It's nothing."

"The judge just threw out our evidence because the search warrant had the wrong fucking address!"

They both knew Freddy had typed up the paperwork to request the warrant. It was a gradeschool mistake. Sloppy and stupid. He felt like he was unspooling. 

"Just fix it, okay?"

Freddy nodded. The case had been set back weeks, maybe months. But it wasn't irrecoverable.

**********

Freddy clicked disconnect three times before finally letting it ring. He paced the carpet in nervous circles.

"This is Doctor Holloway."

"Hello, doctor? Hi. This is Freddy Newandyke. Um, Detective Newandyke. I was your patient years ago."

Silence on the other end, then an exhalation.

"Yes, I remember. Hello detective. Can I call you Freddy?"

He calmed immediately. She'd been the only person who had been able to get through to him, back after he'd worked undercover. When he'd been teetering on the edge. Her voice was calm and authoritative. It reminded him of his mother.

"Yeah, yeah. That's fine. I'm sorry for calling you like this, but something happened. I'm having the same nightmares as before."

"Let's start at the beginning, Freddy. What was the event that triggered your memories?"

Freddy winced and leaned back against the wall, his head hitting it with a dull thud. 

"Someone I cared a lot about. Someone I trusted... he told me he killed a woman. He was clear that it wasn't an accident. I don't think he regrets it."

"Are you obligated to report him, Freddy?"

"No, he already did the time. I even pulled it; reduced sentence for no priors and exemplary service to his country. He told me shit that wasn't even in the case file... shit he didn't have to."

"He confessed to you in friendship."

A lump burned in his throat and he nodded.

"Yeah. He couldn't keep it from me any longer. It was rotting his guts."

A careful pause on the other end.

"You know what that's like."

There was no stopping the tears. He wiped at them furiously and cleared his throat.

"Yeah. I know. I'd been pushing it down so deep, trying to make myself forget..."

"We talked about this, Freddy. You can't do that. You have to accept what happened and forgive yourself."

"I don't fucking deserve that."

"Deserving it is irrelevant. Listen to me, you have to accept it because otherwise it will poison your life and all your relationships."

He felt small and helpless. He gripped the phone tightly and steadied his breathing. The tears had dried up.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Give yourself another chance, Freddy. There's so much pain in this world, just take whatever small piece of happiness you can find."

**********

The woman who owned the deli recognized him and reluctantly caved to his pleas, unlocking the door to the loft. Freddy climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, then stood stupidly on the landing, realizing he didn't know what he'd do if Larry wasn't there. He swallowed his anxiety and knocked as loudly as he could. The wait was agonizing.

After a few minutes, the door swung open. Larry's face was puffy, eyes lined with dark circles. His shirt was filthy, and he reeked of booze and smoke. He looked like a man waiting to die. Slowly, recognition flickered over his face, followed quickly by fear. 

"Freddy? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Did you ever kill anyone besides the cop's wife? Vietnam doesn't count," Freddy demanded bluntly. 

"No. But it's not because I'm a good person. I just hadn't been playing the game long enough. It would have happened eventually. If I'd been in a situation where I had to either do time, or do a cop... I'd have done the cop."

"Why say shit like that? Are you trying to get a rise out of me?" 

"It's the God's honest truth. When you're in that moment, and you realize it's your life or someone else's... you shoot."

Freddy had to lean against the doorway, the memory hit him so vividly. He realized distantly that he was crying as he was pulled inside the apartment. Larry kissed his temples, stroked his arms gently, whispered gentle encouragements in his ear.

"When I was starting out I worked a RICO case undercover."

Larry flinched as if hit, but Freddy kept talking. He needed absolution.

"I got in too deep. I was under for so long that I forgot who I was. I killed a civilian. Jesus. She had a fucking pistol on her and I shot her right in the chest before she could even aim it at me. There was no reason for it. When they told me she'd been pregnant I fucking lost it. They pulled me out, put me under psych eval. Shuffled me around. I'm not made for this, Larry."

He felt himself pulled against a broad, familiar chest. His breathing slowed, calmed by the steady heartbeat. 

"You know how I feel about cops, baby. You ain't like the rest of them." 

"I killed someone. It wasn't self-defense. I could have just knee-capped her. How can I pretend to be this fucking paragon of morality?"

"Don't," Larry shrugged, like it was just that easy, "nobody is. Morality is just a measure of what a man can live with."

The kiss was soft and desperate and sorrowful all at once. Freddy drank of him, reveling in the familiar taste. It became rough as they fought for dominance; residual anger from their separation bled into every movement. Freddy grabbed into Larry's biceps and threw him down against the mattress, pinning him when he tried to sit up.

"You're going to make it up to me," Freddy growled. Larry sneered back at him, baring his teeth.

"How hard do you want me to fuck you?"

Freddy didn't answer, grabbing at Larry's shirt and ripping it up and off. He spread his palms across the other man's chest, stroking gently.

"I don't think so," Freddy commented lazily, slowly scraping his nails against flesh, "I think it's my turn."

Larry shuddered. Freddy knew that deep down, Larry craved cock as much as he did, but would never admit it. He was giving him an out. A chance to accept without shame. Larry's nod was quick. 

Their clothing couldn't come off fast enough. He spread Larry's thighs, kissing up along soft hair until he reached his groin. His cock tasted so good. So familiar. Freddy pushed him deep into the back of his throat, humming contentedly when he heard Larry groan with approval. He pulled away, spitting into his hand. 

"I want you to feel it," Freddy hissed, pressing a finger inside. 

He shouldn't have been surprised at the reaction. Larry bore down, driving him all the way in. Freddy worked him slowly, stretching. Not as gentle as he could have been. Just enough to give it an edge. Larry was panting, begging him for more. He withdrew quickly and rolled on a condom. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, hurry up," Larry hissed, spreading his legs further apart.

Freddy shut him up with one thrust, in all the way to the hilt. He wedged his knees under Larry's ass and felt strong calves hooking around his hips, trying to draw him even deeper. 

"That all you got?" 

"Fuck you old man," Freddy snarled and rammed forward as hard as he could. The resulting grunt was wet and atavistic. 

He gripped tight, slamming in. Over and over. His hair fell into his face, sweat prickled his brow, dripping into his eyes. He rolled his hips and Larry cried out, almost whimpering. He did it again. Definitely a whimper. 

"Touch yourself."

Larry pulled his cock from where it lay pressed against his belly. It was flushed red, leaking. He squeezed the head slowly, watching Freddy with heavy lids, mouth damp and parted. Hips stuttered. Freddy held still. He didn't want to come too quickly. Larry jerked himself leisurely.

"Fuck me, baby," he whispered, tilting his head back, exposing his throat.

Freddy bent forward, kissing, tasting. He bucked deep, as hard as he could. Larry was unraveling beneath him. Time seemed to slow as his climax hit him. A hand clasped desperately at his back, pulling him closer. He felt the hot spill of semen between them, accompanied by Larry's almost shocked cries of pleasure. Freddy yelled into the slick curve of his neck and collapsed on top of him.

Their breathing was deafening in the tiny apartment. Freddy flopped over, arm flung across his eyes. Larry kissed him, smiling and pliant. They held each other, savoring the feel of it. The prosaic simplicity of it. 

"Don't leave me again," Larry murmured, barely audible, "I'm supposed to take care of you."

Freddy ran his thumb along Larry's lightly stubbled jaw. 

"I love you."

It was said honestly and without any expectation. Larry swallowed, nodded, and touched their foreheads together.

"I'm yours."

**********

Freddy looked up from his computer and looked expectantly at his partner. The younger man was staring at the photo on his desk. It was of him and Larry, arms draped across each others' shoulders, heads pressed together, smiling at the camera. An untrained eye would simply see two old friends. Freddy sat back, waiting for a reaction.

"He the source of all your angst a few months back?" the kid asked, gesturing with his mug. 

Natural-born detective. Freddy smirked and nodded.

"He was worth it though."

"Yeah?"

"He's a good man. Good for me. We get each other."

"I'm happy for you," his partner paused, staring at the photo thoughtfully, "but tell him if he breaks your heart, I'll shoot him."

Freddy sputtered with laughter, turning in his chair.

"Good luck with that. He's an ex-marine."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

The kid shook his head and began to walk away. Freddy called after him, teasing.

"And he fucking hates cops!"

FIN


End file.
